


the moon, awake

by oredatte



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Alternating, Repression, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, disaster gays are in love and just so fucking stupid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21844612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oredatte/pseuds/oredatte
Summary: Richie Tozier has a prophetic dream like he's fucking Neo from the Matrix, showing him exactly what's supposed to happen to Eddie and the Losers during their grand return to Derry.Well... no one's dying on Richie's fucking watch.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. the one where richie has a dream

**Author's Note:**

> yes that's right. another generic fix-it fic, because that's apparently just how this fandom deals with the movies. canon? idk her.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think it might be canon that richie lives in chicago, not LA, but i don't care. i wanted him to have a beach house and thus he got a beach house.

###  disinfectant

Richie wakes up suddenly, like he’d been dropkicked into consciousness instead of gently lowered back into his body by angels or what the fuck ever is supposed to happen. His eyes sting and his tongue is dry, the taste of sewer water still overwhelming his senses, which makes his head spin and his stomach turn. It’s all he can smell, and he can almost still feel it on his skin, seeping through the fabric of his clothes and probably into every single one of his pores. His stylist won’t be happy when he gets toilet water acne.

Wait. Sewer water? What the actual, literal fuck?

Holy shitballs, that’s right. He’s in Derry, of all goddamn places. Why’d he bother coming—oh. Oh my god. 27 years. Pennywise. The sewers. _Eddie_.

Barely awake, the sobs come unbidden as they did once before, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Images of Eddie’s motionless body and vacant eyes all the Richie can see, haunting the backs of his eyelids like ghosts, which he supposes they are, now. Fuck, he’s _dead_. Eddie is dead, and Richie let it happen. Richie just _watched_. Eddie saved Richie’s worthless life and he got fucking killed for his effort. Eddie was finally brave, finally showed everyone the strength that Richie always saw in him, and he’s dead because of it. He didn’t deserve to die—none of them did, of course, but especially not Eddie. Eddie is… was… Fuck, Eddie was _everything_. Eddie was everything and Richie loved him. God, did Richie love him.

But Eddie is dead now. Because of Richie.

His vision is always blurry without his glasses, but now it’s doubly so due to all the tears. Much like at the quarry, they just keep coming, following one after another in a vicious funeral march down the creased planes of his face.

Once he manages to grab his glasses and slap them onto his face, he finally realizes—this isn’t the Town House. This isn’t the shitty room he went to sleep in last night. This is his fucking beach house in Malibu. He’s in his bedroom, in his king-sized bed, 2600 miles away from fucking Derry. Wait, holy shit, Derry. He _remembers_. He remembers his hometown, and his parents, and his friends. He remembers Eddie. He remembers that fucking clown. How does he remember? He’s not supposed to remember.

Scrambling for his phone, Richie nearly starts hyperventilating when he sees the date, even as more tears stream down his face. In some kind of ass-backwards Groundhog Day-esque twist of fate, it’s yesterday morning all over again—or at least, it’s the morning of the day he dreamt of. Today is the day Richie watched Eddie die in vivid technicolor, and he privately prays that his dream wasn’t prophetic. Once upon a time he would beg the heavens for psychic powers so he could push Bowers off a cliff without getting caught, but right now, he’d give his left goddamn nut to make sure that was just a normal ass nightmare. Killer mind-reading space clowns are one thing, future-telling dreams of the love of your life dying are something entirely different.

Breakfast consists of whatever leftovers he has in the fridge. He hasn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks, he thinks, and hasn’t had anything to drink besides bourbon for about the same time. He’s honestly not sure how he hasn’t just fucking keeled over from all the bullshit he puts his body through.

His flight to Maine leaves in two and a half hours, so after he finishes wolfing down his three-day-old burger, he hops in the shower and scrubs himself raw. Once he’s clean and dressed, he mechanically stuffs a bunch of shit he thinks he’ll need into his duffel bag before calling his driver to come take him to the airport.

He almost doesn’t go. He almost unpacks his duffel, almost blocks Mike’s number, and almost goes the fuck back to bed. He doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. Instead, he slinks back out of his bedroom with his tail between his legs, ashamed of his own weakness. How could he genuinely consider abandoning his friends like that, when he knows what he knows? When he knows how important it is that they all be there together? He feels guilty for something he didn’t even do, and if that ain’t the goddamn story of his life. Punished for thoughts he can’t control, thoughts he’d get rid of if he only knew how.

Now that he knows he’s flying almost 8 hours to get murdered by a fucking space clown, the trip is absolute agony, when it was a mere annoyance before. All he can think about is what’s waiting for him in Derry—the upcoming showdown with Pennywise. Because challenging an Eldritch horror is apparently what they’ve decided to do today. Of all fucking things to do with their time. Derry might be a shitty backwater town with nothing to do, but even being the victim of another hate crime or two would be better than dealing with… It.

God, he’s 41 goddamn years old and he’s gonna go fight a fucking clown in a sewer later today. He is a grown ass man and he’s gonna go splash around in toilet water, and probably catch fucking dysentery like he’s playing goddamn Oregon Trail.

That in mind, Richie starts throwing back bourbon like nobody’s business, hoping to chase the thoughts away and maybe knock himself out for part of the flight. Thankfully, it works. He sleeps for about 5 hours, which is a blessing. He wakes up with a splitting headache, though, which he’s a lot less thankful for. After years and years of rampant alcoholism, you’d think his body would be able to handle its liquor better than that, but no. The pilot makes some announcement over the intercom and it hurts Richie’s head so much he hurls into one of those paper bags for, like, almost ten minutes.

Okay, maybe the bourbon wasn’t such a good choice after all. At least he’s in first class so he can puke his brains out in peace.

By the time he actually makes it to Derry, it’s dark out. The night is oppressive, somehow, hanging heavily over Richie and making it hard to breathe. He knows what lives under this town, knows why they’re all here, and because he knows, he’s afraid. He honestly might just burst into fucking tears when he sees Eddie. Anything goes at this point.

While driving to the shitty Chinese restaurant Mike told them all to meet at, Richie’s hands grip the steering wheel of the douchey red mustang he rented so tightly that he cuts off blood circulation to his fingers. They feel cold but he can’t let go, can’t relax, not when he’s driving toward his doom. Or at least Eddie’s doom, and that’s worse.

Outside of the Jade of the Orient, he sees Bev and Ben, who he easily recognizes, now. How did he dream up the right faces, if he hadn’t seen them before, at least not since they were kids?

Oh, no. That really might have been a prophetic dream, despite all of Richie’s frantic praying for the contrary. Their awkward little reunion happens _exactly_ how it happened yesterday—well, dream yesterday. Or was it dream today? Fuck, this bullshit is all kinds of confusing. His head already hurts because of the obscene amount of bourbon he slammed back, so he really doesn’t need all this Groundhog Day bullshit on top of it. Point is, this is how the night in his dream started. And that just _can’t_ be good.

Of course, because he’s a dick, Richie still bangs the gong to announce his entrance. It rings in his ears and makes him nauseous, but he doesn’t hurl again, so we’ll call this one a win. “This meeting of the Losers’ Club has officially begun,” He says, trying to grin at his friends, but he’s worried it looks more like a grimace.

Seeing Eddie, alive and glaring at him, helps his smile become genuine. Fuck, he’s so relieved that Eddie’s actually okay. Logically, he knew he would be, but it’s still nice to see it with his own two eyes.

Richie wants to have fun with everyone, like he did in the dream, but the knowledge of It, of why they’re really here, makes it hard for Richie to act normal. Not that he has ever really acted normal.

Certain things are still the same, though. Richie tries to follow the script as best he can, which basically boils down to him just following his gut. Their initial reunion is still awkward, Richie still takes his BJ shot while making eye contact with Eddie, and still asks about Eddie’s wife. “So, wait, Eddie, you got married?”

Just like in the dream, Eddie, instantly on the defensive, snaps, “Yeah, why’s that so fucking funny, dickwad?”

“What? To, like, a woman?”

“Fuck you, bro,” Eddie says emphatically, which delights Richie to no end.

Richie laughs before yelling back, “Fuck you!” God, he missed this like one misses a limb.

When Bill asks him if he got married, Richie still makes a joke about marrying Eddie’s mother, and he definitely still does his Jabba the Hutt impression that killed last time. Eddie says ‘fuck you’ again and Richie almost forgets about his dream, so caught up in the sheer joy and relief he feels to be around his friends again—not to be sappy or anything, but the Losers really were his family. No wonder he’d felt so lost in life after leaving Derry. He was missing half his heart.

During a lull in the conversation, Richie once again brings up how much weight Ben lost, telling him, “You’re like… You’re hot.” Because he is. He’s absolutely banging and no, Richie will _not_ stop ogling him, thank you very much.

Instantly, Eddie chimes in, “That’s true.” Which is something Richie hadn’t noticed in the dream—since when has Eddie (or Richie, for that matter) been comfortable calling other men hot like that? Technically they’ve spent more time apart than they have together, but Richie still feels like he knows Eddie pretty well. More than well enough to know that Eddie really shouldn’t be throwing around the term “hot” when talking about men, or even be agreeing with the callous use of it. Not with the way they grew up.

They get to talking about careers, but no one has to ask Richie’s—he’s got his own Netflix special, for fuck’s sake, everybody knows who he is. He’s actually pretty popular as a comedian, all things considered, despite his most recent show being a total disaster. He still has all of his 3 million twitter followers, so choking on stage and then just fucking leaving is evidently not enough to stop him from being stupidly popular.

And in his defense, he’d just gotten a call that made him so scared he almost shit his pants, so forgetting a joke on stage is understandable.

Bev asks about Eddie’s job, and he says he’s a risk analyst, which Richie has to make fun of him for, just like before. “Oh yeah, what does that entail?” Richie asks, because he knows Eddie will answer him even if he suspects that Richie’s going to pull some bullshit, which he definitely will.

As soon as Eddie starts explaining his position, Richie tips his head back and pretends to snore loudly, earning laughs from all his friends. He can’t help grinning when Eddie tells him off again.

Caught in the moment, Richie just lets things happen as they will, eating admittedly decent Chinese food and drinking as much as is socially acceptable. He challenges Eddie to an arm wrestle and Eddie says yes because he’s still chaotic even at 40, grasping Richie’s hand with his, sweaty palms almost sliding against each other. Eddie laughs and teases, “Let’s take our shirts off and kiss!” Which makes Richie nearly lose. He wins in the end, of course, because arm wrestling is all about leverage and he’s got some long ass forearms, but it’s a near thing. How could Eddie joke so nonchalantly about something like that, like it was _nothing_ —Richie was equal parts turned on and petrified to his very core.

When Bill and Ben bring up how weird this is—being in Derry, seeing each other again, hanging out like the last 27 years didn’t happen—Richie decides to change what he does in response. Instead of telling everyone that he threw up because Mike called him to come home, he figures he might as well be the one to bring up Pennywise, so Mike doesn’t have to. In Richie’s dream, Mike got screamed at on at least three separate occasions, and he thinks it’s about time to cut the man some slack. He was just doing what he thought was right. It’s not his fault he was always the bearer of bad news and also kind of an idiot.

“I know why we’re here, Mike,” Richie says, voice more serious than even he thought he was capable of, “And we need to talk about it. All of us.”

“What are you talking about?” Bev asks, but it’s quiet, like she doesn’t really want to know the answer. That’s probably smart.

“Pennywise the fucking dancing clown. Remember that guy? Yeah, he’s killing kids again, like he did in the 80s. He comes back every 27 years and guess how long it’s fucking been—that’s right, 27 years. We have to kill him for good this time,” Richie says succinctly, not wanting to deal with Mike’s floundering, or Bill’s stuttered questions, or Eddie’s inevitable freak out. He just wants to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible, so they can leave before all the crazy fortune cookie shit starts. “We should get out of here.”

Mike looks blindsided but grateful, somehow. “I… I didn’t think you remembered.”

“I didn’t, not until this morning. We can talk about it at the Town House, okay, we gotta get the fuck outta here.” Richie waves to get their server’s attention. “Hey, yeah, could we get the check?”

Bill meets Richie’s eyes, and he must see the urgency there because he starts to usher everyone out of their private room, somehow convincing them to hang around in Derry at least long enough to hear Richie out. That means he actually has a chance of saving his friends. He’s grateful for Bill stepping in, since he’s the only one the Losers will unequivocally listen to. Thank god for small mercies.

Richie pays the entire bill—because he’s rich enough to do that sort of thing—and hustles the others toward the door. The kid stops him, like in the dream, but Richie doesn’t freak out this time. He knows the kid is just a fan, just parroting some hilariously ominous line from one of his shows, so he takes a quick picture and signs a napkin before climbing into his stupid mustang and driving off to the Town House.

By now, it’s pretty obvious that Richie’s dream was indeed prophetic. He wants to fucking scream, but he’ll do his best to use his knowledge for good instead of evil, because no one is dying on his fucking watch.

At the Town House, Richie is the last to arrive. He slams his door harder than he needs to and stalks up the front steps, dreading the conversation he’s about to have. They’ll probably all believe him, because they believed Bev easily enough in his dream, but it’ll still be a fucking headache. They’ll probably all start yelling again, and Richie honestly doesn’t know how well he’ll be able to handle that.

They’re all in the bar, leaning up against the counter and scattered amongst the armchairs, faces grim. Richie sighs when he steps in. “Hi everyone. My name is Richie and I’m an alcoholic.” That joke hits maybe a little too close to home, but it’s not like any of these schmucks know any better.

“Shut up, dickwad,” Eddie snaps, all righteous fury and furrowed brows, “Just tell us what the fuck is going on.”

“I already told you. Pennywise is back and we have to kill him for good this time. That’s why we’re all back in Derry, all together again, even though we’re all ancient fuckers who literally didn’t remember each other yesterday. Yeah, okay, Mike led us here under false pretenses, sure—but would any of you have honestly come if he’d told you?” Silence. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, shitheads. So I’m gonna let Mike explain what the fuck is going on, but just fucking listen to him.”

Ben runs his perfect fingers through his perfect hair. “How do you know all this, Trashmouth?”

Ah. The million-dollar question, spoken at last. “I, uh…” C’mon, Tozier, just spit it out. Stop being chickenshit. “I had a dream. About all of this. And it kinda… perfectly predicted everything that we’ve all said and done so far? And I know that sounds crazy, but this whole killer clown Eldritch god thing is fucking crazy too, so maybe give me the benefit of the doubt, here. Just let Mike explain everything about It and our memories. But Mikey?” Mike won’t meet Richie’s eyes, but he nods. “Leave out the ritual this time, would you?”

Knowing the Ritual of Chüd is fake, Richie can’t in good conscience make himself—or any of the Losers, for that matter—go through their trials. Especially not alone.

In his dream, they split up like the goddamn Scooby gang, and Richie had to deal with a hate crime and the goddamn giant Paul Bunyan statue all over again. Just like when he was a scared little gay kid. It was truly the fucking worst, and there’s no way he’s going to rehash all that severely repressed trauma when he knows he doesn’t have to. He just wants to go to sleep for a year or two, and maybe go to Maui, not deal with that shit _again_. It was bad enough the first time, even if it was just a dream.

So Richie doesn’t. He lets Mike explain the cycle, their memories, all of it. Richie gently coaxes Bev into talking about her own prophetic dreams, breaks the news about Stan as delicately as he can, and hugs the Losers as they cry over their fallen friend. Bev’s cheek is warm against his neck and Eddie’s hand is soft where it clasps his, because that guy probably fucking moisturizes three times a day.

Richie’s intervention will save them a lot of time and heartbreak. It’s still night, so he suggests they all get some sleep, like they didn’t get to do in his dream. They can leave in the morning and still have plenty of time to end Pennywise before he can kill that kid at the fair—Richie’s little fan, the one living in Bill’s old house. They… never learned the kid’s name.

The only thing Richie will miss about his dream is getting to kill Bowers himself. That shit rocked, actually. Fuck that guy. Richie put years and years of anger, of repression, of bitterness, of fear, into the swing of that tomahawk. The squelching thud of it meeting Bowers’ shitty skull was satisfying like nothing else and Richie felt fucking powerful, even as he immediately hunched over and puked because holy fuck, he just fucking killed a guy in cold blood.

Of course, this go around, Richie won’t let Bowers get that far. They’ll kill him before he can stab Eddie or try to kill Mike. They’ll put that bully in the fucking ground where he belongs.

But for now, they need to sleep. It’s been a long day of traveling and revelations, and they really need to be on their A game while fighting the clown. Richie knows the secret to defeating It, sure, but there’s no way Pennywise is going down without one hell of a fight. They have to be ready for anything. He’ll help them prepare as best he can, but he’s already irreversibly knocked everything off course. Who knows what’ll happen now.

Richie, of course, can’t sleep. He slept on the plane so now he’s wide awake, keyed up with anxiety about the coming day, gut twisting around on itself. He’s sat at the bar, alone, nursing two fingers of bourbon when he knows he really shouldn’t be. He’s supposed to be at his best tomorrow, peak performance and all that, and tossing back bourbon like water is definitely not conducive to him being at his best.

Well. He already poured it. It’d be a waste if he didn’t drink it.

“What are you still doing up?” A gentle voice startles Richie half to death, and he almost spills his drink everywhere. “Can’t sleep?”

Richie huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh. “Something like that. I slept on the plane for, like, five hours.”

Bev hums, sliding onto the barstool next to Richie. “Yeah, I slept through my flight, too. Plus I’m… anxious, I guess. I keep seeing you guys die when I close my eyes.” Wow, okay, that got heavy fast. Richie is not nearly drunk enough for this, but he doesn’t reach for more bourbon, as much as he wants to. He may be an alcoholic, but he’s not stupid.

“Mood,” He says almost mindlessly, even though he’s much too old to be saying that.

“I knew it!” Bev announces, slamming her hand on the bar, “You saw one of us die, didn’t you? In your dream? I knew I recognized that look.”

God, she always could read him like a fucking book. He doesn’t know why he ever bothered trying to hide anything from her. “Yeah,” He says, but he offers no more. That should speak for itself.

“Oh, honey,” She whispers, leaning in to wrap him up in a hug, draping herself over his shoulders, “It was Eddie, wasn’t it?” He can only nod, pressing his face into her neck. She smells like soap and smoke and he didn’t realize how much he missed her until right now.

They stay there in silence for a long time, arms snug around each other, just simply existing together. He and Bev always had something special, something deeply intimate, and he’s so glad that it hasn’t gone away. She just… gets him, in a way the others didn’t. Not even Eddie understood Richie on that level, and they were best friends for years.

He doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” She asks, small hands smoothing up and down his back. Even through the fabric of his tee shirt he can tell that they’re cold.

The offer is platonic, because they’ve always been platonic. They could never be anything but platonic. She’s simply offering him comfort in the form of company, and he’ll gladly accept that. Not without a few jabs first, though. “Whoa, Bev, how forward! I’m blushing! Aren’t you supposed to take a gal to dinner before you try to deflower her?” He’s doing a hilariously bad impression of a southern belle and Bev is already grinning wide.

“The insinuation that you’re a virgin is the most ridiculous part of everything you just said, and you said a _lot_ of ridiculous shit.”

Richie scoffs, mock offended. “You think me a harlot? Perish the thought! I am waiting ‘til marriage, thank you very much.”

Beverly laughs like a chiming bell, delicate but still strong, and Richie is incredibly fond of her. She wraps her freezing fingers around his wrist and drags him upstairs, bypassing her bedroom in favor of his, closing the door behind them with her foot. Richie raises his eyebrow at her and she just smiles, flopping onto the bed with a loud ‘oof’. “Go brush your teeth, Trashmouth,” She says as she finds her way under the covers, “You stink like bourbon and sadness.”

“Toothpaste can only fix one of those,” He tells her plainly, but he still sweeps into the bathroom nonetheless, because the inside of his mouth is indeed super fucking gross. He empties his bladder and washes his face, trying to think about anything but what’s waiting for them tomorrow.

While brushing his teeth, he stares at his reflection. He looks fucking _old_ , with dark stubble and even darker bags under his eyes. Fuck, he _is_ old. He’s practically ancient.

Crawling into bed with Bev is nothing but natural even though they’ve never done it before. She presses up along his spine, burying her nose in the fabric between his shoulder blades, and wraps her arms around his waist. Holy shit, she’s spooning him like he’s never been spooned before. It feels… safe. He feels safe, here, despite being in Derry. He feels loved.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face, and his fingers intertwined with Bev’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said platonic bevchie rights


	2. the one with the clown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ###  injury

In the morning, just as the sun’s coming up, the Losers all pile into Eddie’s rental car. Bev is sitting on Richie’s lap in the backseat, though he has no idea why she chose him instead of the sexy Ben or strong Mike or kind Bill—it might have something to do with the night they spent together. He feels closer to her right now than he’s ever felt to anyone, and he’s had someone’s dick up his ass.

Ben and Bill are pressed up against either side of Richie and Bev, making for a very tight squeeze in the back of the small sedan, but they manage, somehow. The Losers are no strangers to physical intimacy like this, shoulder pressed against shoulder and thigh pressed against thigh. Honestly, Richie’s not sure why they chose Eddie’s rental instead of Bev’s SUV, but none of them are particularly intelligent. Mike has shotgun and Eddie is behind the wheel, muttering about seatbelts and safety laws and all sorts of other garbage.

They sort of aimlessly drive around Derry, looking for Bowers’ characteristic blue Trans Am, which they eventually find parked outside of his old house. This must’ve been where he holed up between escaping the psych ward and stabbing Eddie in his room, in Richie’s dream.

Eddie parks a block away and they all climb out, armed with whatever weapons they could find in the Town House—fire pokers, kitchen knives, baseball bats, etc. They’re going to sneak up on Bowers (hopefully), and with their combined power, just fucking beat the man to death. Because he deserves it, after slicing into Ben’s stomach, after kicking the shit out of Richie while calling him slurs, after trying to beat Mike’s skull in with a rock. He has it coming.

Bill leads the way as they creep toward the house, trying to stay as hidden as they can behind the Firebird and overgrown shrubbery. Eddie is the smallest, so he’s the one sent forward to peek through the window, trying to see if Bowers is around.

As luck would have it, he’s inside, asleep on the couch. The lock on the back door is broken, and they just walk right in. It feels almost too easy, but Richie won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

There is silence, for a moment, as they all stand there, looking down at Bowers. He’s drooling onto his chest and he looks so small, somehow, alone in this empty house. His mullet looks even worse than any of them remembered, and suddenly they’re all wondering the same thing—who gets the first hit? Bill steps forward and puts his hand on Richie’s lower back, gently pushing him towards Bowers, which is as good as a command. The others all nod and thus Bowers’—and by extension, Richie’s—fate is sealed. Riche wraps his hands tight around the handle of his baseball bat, white knuckling it for fear of letting go, getting closer to Bowers and steeling himself to do what he knows he’s done once before. He’ll probably puke after he does this, but he doesn’t care.

The sound of the metal bat colliding with Bowers’ skull is sickening.

Immediately and almost reflexively, Richie takes a haggard step back. The others rush forward in a tsunami of flailing limbs, attacking Bowers’ body with everything they have, screaming as they lay into his carcass. Honestly, Richie hit him hard enough to kill him with just that one shot, but he won’t begrudge them this. Beating the shit out your tormentor is cathartic like few other things are. Richie would know.

And Richie does indeed puke. He throws up onto the floor right next to the couch, nearly getting some on Bev’s shoes, earning himself a smack upside the head.

It shouldn’t be surprising, and it isn’t. It _is_ a little disappointing, but that’s life, ain’t it?

They still have a few hours before the kid will be in any danger, so after a quick stop at the Town House to change out of their blood-soaked clothes, they hit up a diner. They’d barely eaten breakfast that morning due to the nerves twisting their guts into tight knots, but now that they’ve beaten a man to death, they’re suddenly ravenous. Funny how things work out sometimes.

The energy is the diner is nothing like the Jade of the Orient last night—the air is tense with anticipation, because they all know they run the very real risk of dying tonight. Each one privately believes it’ll be them, and each one of them is wrong.

They eat greasy food and try to tell jokes, try to keep the mood light, but nothing can combat the heavy somber fog that’s fallen over them. There’s simply too much at stake.

Bellies full of junk food, they climb into Bev’s SUV, now entrenched in a gnawing silence as they begin their slow journey toward Neibolt street. Richie’s never been part of a funeral march before, but he can’t imagine it being much different from this. They’re all dragging their feet, reluctant to face what they know is lying in wait, reluctant to give up what they’ve only so recently recovered—each other.

They’re standing on the steps of the house when Bill—big, brave Bill—hesitates. “Richie…” He begins, sounding stressed, like everyone else, but it’s somehow worse coming from him, “Are you su-sure?”

Unsure of what Bill’s even asking, Richie still nods. Of course he’s sure—he has to be. “Yeah. I’m sure. Try not to let It separate us, but if It does, stay away from the fridge, and make sure one of you smashes the mirror in the foyer.” It might sound like cryptic nonsense to them, but it will save them time and heartbreak, both precious things they need to desperately hold on to.

They, of course, still get separated. But they kill the Stan spider and smash the mirror in record time, and no one froze up or cried, so we’ll call it a win.

It takes a while for them to make it down the well and into the sewer proper, feet slipping on slick rock, but a quick glance at Eddie’s watch tells Richie they’re doing well on time. Pennywise isn’t supposed to go after the kid for another two hours, and if they can make him appear here soon, he won’t even get the chance.

Richie’s not… actually sure how to summon Pennywise, now that he thinks about it. Last time, the Ritual of Chüd did the trick, but Richie’s vetoed that whole process because it’s stupid and sucks shit. He didn’t even let Mike bring that ugly ass leather urn into Neibolt with them, because that thing is _also_ stupid and sucks shit. So what do they do? How do they lure out a killer, shapeshifting space clown? Should he dangle a turkey leg from a string? Would Pennywise even go for turkey? What about a child leg? Would that work?

He’ll have to think about it.

Before they exit the tunnels, Richie has another piece of advice to give his precious friends. “Hey, guys, if you ever hear someone calling your name that’s not one of us, just keep walking, yeah? Pennyfool likes to separate us by saying our names and distracting us, so the others keep walking and leave us behind. Don’t listen to those whispers and you should be fine, we’re safe-ish as a group. Capiche?” Everyone calls out some kind of affirmative and Richie is nervous beyond belief. Is this really all he can do for them? Some vague warnings that they’ll probably end up ignoring?

Of everyone who could’ve been given the double-edged sword of foresight, why Richie? Why put this burden on the least responsible Loser? On the one who’d do the worst job?

Well. Maybe he’s not _complete_ garbage at this. Because of his advice, Bev ignores the whispers that chase her into the cavern with the trapdoor in it, and thus doesn’t get dragged underwater by that weird hag thing. Richie’s thankful for that because diving headfirst into gray water was bad enough the first time, considering it got in his mouth and he almost lost his glasses. He really didn’t want to have to do it again, though he would’ve in a heartbeat, because it’s _Bev_.

Eddie doesn’t have his little freak out when Mike opens the trapdoor, which is good, but something in Richie says that he still needs to be comforted. Eddie’s hands are shaking and his chest is heaving and Richie’s heart breaks, just the littlest bit, because he sees 13 year old Eddie cradling his broken arm with tears in his eyes. He sees pure _fear_. He cups Eddie’s soft face in his hands, resisting the urge to stroke his cheeks with his thumbs. “Hey, I can hear your heart beating a mile a minute from over here,” He says, voice soft enough to be shared just between the two of them, “You’ll be okay, man. You’re braver than you think.”

“Thanks, Rich,” Says Eddie, who looks like he wants to say more, but his lips are pursed tightly. He eventually says nothing. Richie feels a loss, somehow, though he doesn’t know why.

And down through the trapdoor they go.

Everything is wet as they slowly make their way toward the cistern, sliding through gaps in the rocks and not letting each other out of their sight. It doesn’t take long for them to arrive, though Richie wishes it did.

The cistern opens up before them and it’s cavernous, the sheer size of it almost mind boggling, making Richie feel so, so small. Feeling small is… not something he’s used to. It’s not something he wants to be used to. He tries not to think about it as they move forward, because he has more important things to worry about. His mind is replaying the events of his dream and it’s starting to get _loud_. This is where it happened, so he has to be on his toes, has to be on the lookout for anything he can do to change Eddie’s fate. Eddie has to walk away from the cistern, from the Neibolt house, from It.

He remembers exactly where Eddie got impaled. He remembers the taste of iron on his tongue, the blur of Eddie’s face through crimson smeared on glass, the weight of his body in Richie’s arms. He remembers Eddie’s raspy breaths, his shitty last words. He remembers Eddie’s dead eyes.

That won’t happen again. Richie will make sure of it.

The first part of Richie’s ‘Keep Eddie Kaspbrak Alive’ plan is to ensure Eddie stays far away from where he was killed in the dream. Part two is making sure Richie is always between Eddie and It, so if someone somehow still gets impaled, it’ll be him. Because Eddie doesn’t deserve to die, but Richie might. The jury’s still out on that one.

Still unsure of how to make Pennywise appear, Richie climbs into the center of what he’s been calling the ‘splash zone’. The sheer force of impact of It’s arrival on earth sent molten rock flying and it hardened midair, creating iridescent, sharp spikes that look much like a statue Richie saw in a mall once.

The others trail after him, looking scared but determined, and Richie’s overcome with affection for his friends. God, he missed them more than anything. “Okay, this is where we killed It in my dream, so I think we’ll have to do it here. Since we’re not doing the ritual, though, I’m not really sure how to make him, like, actually show up.”

Eddie groans dramatically and Richie wants to kick him. “Oh my fucking god! You don’t _know_?! Of course you don’t! Why would you! That would make this too easy! Thanks for fucking nothing, Richie!”

“Shut up, shithead!” Richie snaps, “Maybe your bitching will summon him, why don’t you try doing it a little louder? I don’t think they could hear you from the fucking surface!”

A chill sweeps through the cistern and the hair on the back of Richie’s neck stands on end. Oh my fucking god. Really? Now? “Summon whom?” A voice asks, one that doesn’t belong to any of the Losers, one that makes Richie’s skin crawl like few other things can. “You think I’m just at your beck and call, Losers?”

Despite the situation at hand, Richie can’t hold back a snort. “Well yeah, kinda.” Because he _did_ sort of show up just because they were talking about him. He’s basically obsessed with them. Sad.

Always on the same wavelength as Richie, Eddie asks, “You’re here, aren’t you?” Expression about as smug as Richie feels, which is a good look for him. Kind of sexy, if Richie’s being honest.

The smugness doesn’t last long.

Pennywise immediately doubles and then triples in size, swelling up until he’s massive, towering grotesquely over them. He roars and the walls shake with it as his limbs multiply and transform into spiked claws, into the weapons which wrought death on Eddie once upon a dream. God, he’s so fucking scary, how did dream Richie do this without having a total meltdown?

He already explained to the others how they defeated It in his dream, so they know all they need are words and strong hearts, but they still all scream and disperse, because _holy fuck that’s a giant clown_.

Unsurprisingly, he and Eddie end up at those three closet doors again—oh hey, closet doors, Richie didn’t realize the irony of that last time—being chased by a nasty ass tentacle. The words on the doors are stark red against the peeling paint, glistening even in the dark tunnel, but Richie is not afraid of them. He knows what lies behind each door—besides the middle one, but who cares about that one—and more importantly, he also knows that Pennywise will give up the chase quickly. Eddie lunges for the ‘Not Very Scary’ door but Richie grabs his bicep, which is surprisingly large. Damn, Eddie got swole, that’s not fucking fair. Richie has a goddamn dad bod.

“Don’t bother with the doors,” Richie says, “They’re all bullshit. He’ll stop chasing us in a second.” Eddie shoots him a skeptical look but shrugs, stepping away from the doors and closer to Richie, who still has his hand around Eddie’s arm. He doesn’t let go, and Eddie doesn’t shrug him off.

True to word, the tentacle eventually gives up and retreats. Richie and Eddie share a long look before heading back toward the cistern to take stock of the goings-on.

Unlike in the dream, there’s no one currently in enough danger that Richie has to throw a rock at Pennywise to distract him, though he does still want to call him a sloppy bitch, because that was iconic of him. He’d prefer not to get caught in the deadlights, though, because even those brief moments were agony unlike anything else. So hard pass on that one, thanks.

Eddie spots Ben and Bev—both looking rumpled, but at least Bev’s not covered in blood this time—and jogs towards them, Richie hot on his heels.

It happens fast. There’s a spike flying toward them and Richie reacts before he can process anything beyond white hot panic, shoving Eddie as hard as he can to get him out of the way. He actually hears something in his shoulder pop from the sheer force of that shove.

There’s blinding pain for a breath, and then there’s nothing.

###  antiseptic

Eddie is currently freaking the _fuck_ out. Richie’s blood is everywhere, seeping through Eddie’s clothes and into his fucking underwear probably, but that’s the goddamn least of his concerns right now. He doesn’t have time to worry about all the diseases that can be contracted through blood contact when Richie _won’t wake up_.

Despite all of Richie’s meddling, they still ended up in the same place—scattered, afraid, and at Pennywise’s mercy in the cistern.

Richie took a blow meant for Eddie. Richie probably saved Eddie’s goddamn life, and god, if he doesn’t wake up, Eddie’s gonna kill him himself. Richie can’t leave Eddie now, not when he’s finally remembered everything, not when he finally has Richie in arm’s reach again.

Even after all these years, Eddie loves him.

There was always something missing from Eddie’s life, but try as he might, he could never figure out exactly what. There was just a gaping hole where something precious used to be.

His life always felt like somebody else’s. He went to college because he was expected to, got a shitty job because his advisor thought it was a good choice for him, married a woman because he thought he should love her after how long they dated, and laid in the guest room bed every night and cried himself to sleep. He was so, so miserable but he was in so deep that he never bothered to try digging himself out. If he did manage to claw his way out of this pit—what then? Go back to a hometown he couldn’t remember? Stay with friends he swore he had, but didn’t know the names of?

He had no reason to stay, but he had to reason to leave, either. No matter what, he’d be miserable, and it was easier to be miserable in a nice condo on a shared salary than alone in a bachelor pad. It just… made sense. Even if it felt like shit.

Now that he remembers, he’s ashamed of himself. He spent _years_ doing a job he hated, in a city he hated, in a condo he hated, with a wife he hated. All because he lost what was most important to him—the Losers, his _friends_. Eddie loved his friends more than anything. Eddie still loves his friends, of course, maybe even more so now. His love for his friends is stronger than his fear.

His love for Richie is stronger than anything he’s ever felt in his life.

Ugh, okay, that’s enough of that. He’s gonna make himself nauseous if he keeps being that sappy.

Getting Richie’s unconscious body out of the Neibolt house before it collapses isn’t easy, but Eddie, Ben, and Mike manage it somehow. Once they’re outside, they gently lower Richie to the ground so Eddie can get a good look at his wounds—he may not be a doctor, but he’s taken over a dozen first aid classes, so he knows a thing or two (or three). If it’s nothing life-threatening, Eddie can treat him. Possibly with just the first aid kit Eddie brought to Derry.

He pushes Richie’s ugly button-down to the side and hikes up his tee shirt, exposing a gnarly gash along his ribs. It’s a little deep but not too long, and didn’t hit any vital organs, so he won’t need stitches as far as Eddie can tell. It’s already bleeding less. If they take Richie straight to the Town House, Eddie can fix him right up.

The fact that Richie passed out is concerning, though—did he hit his head or something? If Eddie suspects brain damage, they’ll have to take him to the ER for sure. That’ll be fun to explain to the staff.

When Eddie opens one of Richie’s eyes, the pupil contracts normally. The same thing happens with the other eye, which makes Eddie fairly confident he isn’t concussed, so that’s one less thing to worry about. Wait a minute—did Richie even hit his head? Eddie feels along Richie’s scalp but doesn’t find any lumps or cuts, and thinking back to when Richie got attacked, Eddie realizes that there’s actually almost no chance he has any brain damage. Richie pushed Eddie away from the spike, got his side grazed midair, and almost instantly passed out, probably from the pain. His body fell on top of Eddie and his head landed squarely on Eddie’s chest, which—while firm—is definitely not enough to give a man a concussion.

Thank god.

“He’ll be fine,” Eddie announces, and a collective sigh of relief sweeps through the Losers, “He’s just gotta sleep it off.” They were so, so scared they’d lose another one of their own.

They can avoid the hospital, now that Eddie’s convinced Richie’s brain isn’t damaged, but they still have to get his wound cleaned and disinfected asap. Like before, Eddie, Ben, and Mike all hoist Richie up, carefully walking him to Bev’s rental. They lay him in the backseat but he’s too damn tall for them to be able to close the door, so after passing Eddie the keys, Bev climbs in and carefully folds Richie’s legs over her lap. Mike takes shotgun, while Ben and Bill insist they’ll be fine staying at Neibolt, for now.

“Just s-send someone back for us,” Bill says, which is pretty reasonable. It’d be a long walk but a pretty short drive.

Eddie hops into the driver’s seat, thankful beyond belief that his friends are all here with him, that they all—except Stan, of course, Eddie could never forget about Stan, he was the best of them—survived. They made it out and Eddie loves them with everything he has.

The drive back to the Town House is silent, but it’s not a tense silence. It seems… contemplative, maybe, like they’re all thinking about what happens now. They’ll obviously all stick around until Richie’s okay, but what about after that, where do they go from there? Will Eddie go back to New York, to Myra? Will Mike finally get to go to Florida? Will Ben return to his company, alone? Will Bill make up with Audra? Will Bev go back to her company, her husband? Will Richie leave Eddie all alone again? Will the Losers drift apart again?

Will they forget again?

God, Eddie hopes they won’t forget again. He doesn’t think he’d be able to survive another amputation of the most important part of himself. This time, he’d surely bleed out.

With his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel of Bev’s rental, Eddie decides that he’s done being a coward. Richie said that Eddie is braver than he thinks, and god, Eddie wants that to be true more than anything. So he’ll make it true, by sheer force of will if it comes down to it. He won’t let Richie down, he’ll become the man Richie always saw in him, he’ll finally stop being fucking afraid.

What that means for Eddie and the course of his life remains to be seen, but that doesn’t matter, just yet, because Richie comes first. Eddie won’t spare another thought for himself until Richie is safe and sound and on the mend.

At the Town House, Mike and Eddie move quickly, lifting Richie out of the backseat and carrying him up the front steps. Since the staff are still nowhere to be seen, they decide to dump Richie on a couch in the sitting room, for now. Trying to navigate those stairs with Richie’s 200+ lbs of deadweight is just asking for trouble. The couch is plenty wide enough for him, anyway, so it’s not a big deal.

Eddie quickly runs upstairs and races back down with his hefty first aid kit in one hand and a bunch of towels in the other. His brows are furrowed, as they often are.

He sends Mike to fetch water and Bev to find a hair tie or a clip, something to keep Richie’s hair away from his face. When they both return, and Richie’s hair is satisfactorily held back, Eddie gets to work. First order of business is getting Richie out of these filthy, shredded clothes. With Mike and Bev’s help, Eddie peels off Richie horrible button-down, but he knows he’ll have to cut that t-shirt off. It’s already torn to hell anyway, so it’s not like Richie is losing a wearable shirt.

Once Richie is shirtless—wow, okay, not to be weird or anything, but… Richie looks good. Like… _really_ good. Eddie’s really never given much thought to the “dad bod” but it really works for Richie, somehow. His chest hair is dark and soft-looking, making Eddie’s fingers itch to—okay, okay, that’s enough of that. He has to fix Richie up before he can thirst over him. (God, he’s thirsting over Richie like he’s 16 again, what a fucking mess.)

Let’s try this again. Take it from the top, Eds.

Once Richie is shirtless and situated to Eddie’s liking, Mike leaves to go pick up Ben and Bill, who Eddie had honestly completely forgotten about. Bev watches on, fingers buried in Richie’s hair, as Eddie stuffs towels under Richie so he can flush the wound without getting bloody dirt water on the couch.

The beige towels turn dark with blood and whatever else, but Eddie just keeps pouring water over the wound until it runs clean. He checks it for debris, then disinfects and bandages, hands trembling minutely as he does so. The nerves won’t leave him even though he _knows_ Richie is fine. The man is peacefully snuffling and snoring away, sometimes mumbling nonsense under his breath, peaceful as anything. Eddie knows from many a sleepover that this is just how Richie sleeps. He’s _fine_.

Despite both of them knowing full well that he’s fine, Bev and Eddie keep their hands on him like a lifeline, and they both sit there and just… wait for him to wake up.

Bev’s fingers are still dancing across Richie’s face and scalp and Eddie feels something dark in the pit of his stomach, something that looks and tastes like jealousy. Why on earth is he jealous of Bev, of all people? Sure, she understands Richie better than anyone, and she’s always kissing his face and holding his hands, and she came out of Richie’s room this morning, but—oh, god, he’s jealous of Bev. What kind of friend is he?

He’s drawn out of these traitorous thoughts when Mike returns with Bill and Ben in tow. “How is he?” Bill asks, reaching over to gently drag his fingers across Richie’s forehead. That feeling in Eddie’s stomach returns and he internally groans—Big Bill too?

Ben playfully ruffles Richie’s hair, and Mike grabs Richie’s hand, and Eddie wants to fucking scream. Great, so he’s jealous of _all_ his friends. Fantastic. What an amazing discovery! Love that for him.

Luckily, Bill and Ben disappear upstairs to shower and change, and Mike hops into his car to return to the library in order to do the same. That leaves Bev and Eddie alone with Richie again, both still clinging to him. Which is still not ideal as far as Eddie is concerned, but it’s definitely better, and he really has no business hogging Richie anyway. Bev’s his friend too.

When Ben, Bill, and Mike are all back and cleaned up, Richie still hasn’t woken up. They stick around for a while, but nothing happens, and all three eventually disperse to get some much-needed sleep.

After another hour of sitting around and watching Richie’s chest rise and fall, Bev finally detangles her fingers from his hair and stands, stretching her back like a cat. She presses a soft, affectionate kiss against Richie’s forehead, and then another on the crown of his head. “I’m gonna shower. I’ll be back. Keep an eye on him, yeah?” She asks, like Eddie wasn’t already doing that. He nods anyway, because he shouldn’t take any of his frustration out on Bev. There’s truly no one who deserves it less.

Eddie ends up falling asleep before Richie wakes up, face pressed against the itchy fabric of the couch. He wakes up only when Richie finally begins to stir.

It’s the middle of the night, probably, and Richie is definitely still half asleep, but he’s awake enough to let Eddie herd him up the stairs and tuck him into bed. It’s a struggle to wrestle Richie out of his pants, but Eddie manages, accidentally pulling his boxers off in the process. So now Richie’s naked, which is something Eddie is desperately trying not to think about. Dick? What’s a dick? Eddie has never thought about another man’s penis before in his life. Instead, he pushes Richie bodily toward the bed, pulling the covers over him once he’s all settled in. Richie’s filthy and he stinks but he’s too tired to shower, so that’ll have to wait.

Despite the grime still clinging to Richie’s skin—Eddie did his best to clean him with wet towels, but there’s only so much that can do—Eddie still kisses his cheek. God, he’s so glad Richie survived. When Richie sleepily processes the kiss, he mumbles an instinctual “I love you” and Eddie almost has a breakdown right then and there, but he manages to keep it together long enough to make it back into his room.

Overwhelmed and still trembling with residual stress, Eddie climbs into the shower in a haze, scrubbing at his skin until it burns, and then scrubbing more. He can almost feel the pathogens burrowing into his body—even though he knows full well that isn’t really how it works—and he can feel the panic rising up, bubbling in his chest. Robotically, he turns the water off and manages to dry himself most of the way off, shrugging into PJs before the tsunami of panic hits him in earnest.

Shit, fuck, he can’t be alone for this, he’ll scratch and scratch until he bleeds. He needs someone, someone he trusts—he needs _Richie_.

But he can’t have Richie. He might never get to have Richie, and that’s scary.

He ends up outside of Bill’s room. He knocks and the door opens in seconds, revealing Eddie’s oldest friend, who looks dead on his feet. “Can’t sleep?” Bill asks, voice hoarse from a mix of sleep deprivation and too much screaming earlier.

Eddie just wheezes in response. Bill’s eyes widen with realization, and he ushers Eddie into his room with gentle, sturdy hands.

It takes him almost an hour and a half to calm Eddie down, but he does it eventually, just by rubbing his back and telling him it’s going to be okay. Eddie is not a terribly complex man—sometimes he just needs to be reminded that he isn’t alone. He hasn’t panicked like that in years, but he did spend the day fighting a child-eating clown from outer space, so maybe he can cut himself some slack. Just this once.

When he finally makes it back to his room, he’s asleep the second his head hits the pillow. He doesn’t dream, and that’s probably for the best, all things considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said platonic kaspbrough rights
> 
> thanks to my friend lee for the name "pennyfool". that shit's funny


	3. the one where everything hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ###  infection

Consciousness hits Richie like a train and he groans, trying to flip over but finding himself incapable of doing so without a sharp stab of pain flooding his brain. His side hurts like the dickens and he’s not really sure why—his mind is hazy and clouded, just like it is every morning, but it seems worse today. It’ll come back online soon, hopefully, but for now, he’s lost in the fog. It’s honestly not so bad. It’s kind of comfortable, when it manages to block out the pain.

Looking down, he sees a bandage wrapped neatly around his torso, tinged pink from where blood has seeped through it. That’s probably what smarts so much. It doesn’t look very good, actually—he doesn’t think it should still be bleeding, but he’s not sure why he thinks that. How long has it been since he got hurt?

Man, what happened yesterday? (Was it yesterday?) Did he get fucking stabbed or something? Because it definitely looks like he got fucking stabbed or something. That’s fun. Love that for him.

He sits up slowly and laboriously, but he does eventually manage it, body shuddering like a shifting glacier. He’s just barely made it to his feet when there’s a knock at the door. “Hey, Rich, you up yet?” That’s Eddie’s voice. Impatient as ever, Eddie’s already opening the door by the time Richie realizes he’s buck ass naked—wait, why is he naked? He doesn’t sleep in the nude, he’s _never_ slept in the nude, he’s much too insecure for that.

Face bright red for some reason, Eddie sighs like he’s unsurprised but still annoyed, which is a deliciously Eddie thing to do. “Ugh, dude, you still haven’t gotten dressed? Put some goddamn clothes on.”

Richie groans, because this is totally unfair. “ _You_ walked in on _me_! And I’ve been awake for literally ten seconds, man, stop yelling at me.”

“I’m not yelling!”

“You’re totally yelling!”

Frowning, Eddie huffs, “Whatever. I came in here to check on you and change your bandage, but god, you stink like shit. Go take a shower.” He pats Richie’s shoulder like they’re golf buddies, or perhaps coworkers who absolutely can’t stand each other, and it feels _wrong_. The movement leaves a handprint of fire in its wake, five fingers of flame spread across Richie’s sweaty skin, and he burns with it.

“You’re not my real dad,” Richie quips, but he definitely still moves toward the bathroom, because he really does stink like shit. He can feel the grime clinging to his skin. Did he even shower after all that shit happened yesterday—WAIT. YESTERDAY. THE CLOWN. WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED WITH THE CLOWN. “Holy fuck! The clown! Did we beat the fucking clown?!”

“Holy shit, yeah, you passed out, that’s right! You missed it! Yeah, man, we totally killed that fucking clown. I’ll tell you all about it after your shower, alright? I wasn’t exaggerating when I said you stink like _shit_.”

Richie pouts and Eddie laughs, shaking his head fondly. There is comfortable silence for but a second, then memories suddenly flood Richie, making his mind swirl in the basin of his skull. He again wonders what the _fuck_ happened yesterday, because he seems to have two conflicting sets of memories, and that’s just a bunch of horse shit.

Honestly, he can’t even really tell up from down right now, seeing as he’s unable to organize his thoughts in any meaningful way. Brain machine broke.

With a gentle shove in the general direction of the bathroom, Eddie leaves him to his own devices, probably with some parting words, too, but Richie certainly doesn’t hear them. He can’t focus on much of anything right now, thoughts scrambled like they’ve gone through a… code scrambler? Or something? Whatever, he’s in no state to think of clever similes. Why’s his brain so broken anyway? Oh, shit, when’s the last time he took his ADHD meds? Of course, he can’t remember, because he has goddamn unmedicated ADHD. Did he even remember to bring his pills with him from California?

Man, there are lots of mysteries afoot on this shitty, shitty morning.

He slinks into the bathroom, turning on the water and flopping onto the toilet to wait for it to heat up. That’s always been a problem in Derry—the old pipes just don’t seem to want to get hot, almost like the town itself is leeching out all the heat.

Now that Richie’s alone and finally fully awake, he realizes that he hasn’t really had time to himself to just… process. Being back in Derry and flooded with memories weighed on him, but he barely noticed because he was so damn caught up in saving Eddie. He never spared even half a thought for himself, never took the time to realize how poorly he’s holding it all together, how he’s falling apart at the seams.

And of course, now he’s thinking about Eddie again, just like he’s done every other minute since he’s been back in Derry. Thinking of Eddie is so natural that Richie does it without realizing—and when he thinks about it, he’s always done that. Even when he’d forgotten, he hadn’t _really_ forgotten. There was always that voice in the back of his mind that warned him not to touch public handrails, or matter-of-factly told him he was going to get cancer every time he had a cigarette, or scolded him for eating with his dirty fingers. For 27 years, there was no face attached to that voice, but now Richie knows. It was Eddie.

It was always Eddie. Of course it was Eddie, who else could it possibly be?

Looking down, Richie realizes he has no idea what to do with his bandage. Should he just leave it on? Eddie probably told him what to do, but he was most certainly not paying attention when I happened, so he just has to make an educated guess. He leaves the bandage on, for now, because Eddie is gonna change the bandage and clean the wound anyway. He also just doesn’t want to look at it, just yet.

Once Richie’s as clean as he can possibly get without literally peeling his skin off, he steps out of the shower and stares at his own reflection for a while. He looks—to put it lightly—like complete horseshit. He looks like a paper bag filled with barf got run over by a car a few times, then tossed out of the window of a speeding bus, then stabbed, and then spit on for good measure. His eyebags have their own eyebags, dark and heavy, looking like they’re packing up for a fucking vacation to goddamn Maui.

Shit, Richie wants to go to Maui. He could really use a nice vacay right about now. Fuck Derry, fuck Maine, and especially fuck Pennywise the goddamn dancing clown. Richie wants to sit on a fucking beach and bake in the sun for a few days, because after all the sewage he literally swam through yesterday, he’s goddamn earned it.

He wants to dip downstairs for some grub, but when he steps out of the bathroom, Eddie is there, carefully arranging his first aid supplies on Richie’s bed. He raises an eyebrow at Richie. “Took you long enough,” He snarks, “Get dressed, but keep your shirt off.”

“Ohoho, Doctor Kaspbrak!” Richie leers, earning himself a glare that makes him giggle, “Seducing a patient! How naughty! Think of the HIPAA violations!” The jokes come easily because Richie does _not_ want to think about the implications of being shirtless in front of potential underwear model Eddie Kaspbrak. He considers trying to suck in his gut but he knows it won’t work—he’d probably just get lightheaded and pass out if he kept it up.

“That’s not even what HIPAA is, dipshit! Now shut up and do what I said.”

And so Richie does as he was told, pulling on some boxers and basketball shorts, but leaving his upper body bare. He feels strangely vulnerable.

“Sit,” Eddie says, pointing at an empty spot on the bed. Richie shrugs and flops down obediently. “Hold still.”

Ever precise, Eddie takes his sweet time cleaning and redressing Richie’s wound. Every movement is deliberate and calculated, and Richie can’t help but be mesmerized by it, by the warm hands tracing over his skin and being so, so gentle. Richie may or may not get a little turned on, but luckily enough, almost dying at the hands of a child-eating space clown kind of kills your libido. He basically has whiskey dick right now and for once in his life, he’s glad for it.

Once he’s satisfied with Richie’s bandages, Eddie nods to himself and gathers up all his supplies, dumping them into a hilariously large first aid kit that Richie absolutely makes fun of him for. He flips Richie off and disappears out the door.

Now alone and in too much pain to get up without help, Richie scrolls through twitter, reading more than one tabloid article about his own death. Because apparently that’s what people assume happened to you when you choke on stage and then immediately walk out the back door, never to be seen in public again. (Although he definitely did go to LAX the next day, and he definitely signed some autographs and took two pictures, so maybe TMZ just has nothing better to do than tell people he’s dead. Or maybe they’re all idiots. Or maybe both. Probably both.)

Eddie comes back twenty minutes later with a sub and a Sprite and Richie wants to kiss him stupid. I mean, he _always_ wants to kiss Eddie stupid, but the urge becomes extra strong when Eddie brings him his favorite sandwich and his favorite soda. Richie is easy to please because the bar is so, so low—if you remember a single fact about him, he’ll probably try to marry you.

So Eddie remembering a sub order from 1991 is basically the height of romance.

While they eat, Eddie explains everything that happened with Pennywise after Richie passed out. Apparently Eddie and Mike grabbed Richie and stashed him behind some rocks, which was probably a smart move, before finding the others and huddling up in a small cave branching off the cistern. Eddie of all people gave everyone a pep talk, telling them that they should trust Richie, that Richie’s plan would work, if they let it. They just had to stop being afraid.

After that, it sounds like it went pretty much the same way it did in Richie’s dream, with all of them chanting “clown” at It until they could kill crush It’s heart with their bare hands, which is still, like… super fucked up. Right? Isn’t that totally fucked up? Whatever. What’s done is done. At least Richie didn’t have to see it this time.

The rest of the early afternoon is whiled away in Richie’s bed. Eddie brings in his laptop and they watch one of Richie’s Netflix specials, making fun of his ghost writers and telling much better jokes.

Bev joins them at some point, draping herself over Richie as carefully as she can, avoiding his injured side but still laying mostly on top of him. She’s warm and smells like cigarette smoke and peaches and Richie loves her. Eddie smells like Irish Spring and hand sanitizer and Richie loves him, too.

He missed his friends so fucking much. They’ll all separate again soon, but Richie doesn’t want that, of course he doesn’t want that. He wants them all here with him, safe and within arm’s reach. He wants to be able to go to the park with Bill in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep, he wants to throw rocks at Bev’s window until she gets annoyed enough to come smoke with him, he wants to stay up late reading comic books with Eddie, curled up together on a bed much too small for them. Hell, he even wants to walk through sheep shit on Mike’s farm and listen to Ben’s terrible NKOTB. He wants his friends close to him. He wants things to be like they were. (He still can’t even think about Stan for longer than a second, because god, it hurts. Stan was his best friend. Richie loved Stan so, so much.)

Everything’s different, now, and Richie’s not sure how well he’ll be able to handle that now that he remembers. It was easy to ignore the clawing, aching hole inside him when he didn’t know what he was missing, but he knows now, and he can’t just give that up.

They’ll all stay in touch, of course, but they each have their own lives, spread all across the country. Who knows how often they’ll all be able to see each other after this.

It feels like some sort of sick cosmic joke, that Richie finally has his family back, just to lose them again so quickly.

The other Losers make appearances to check on Richie, sometimes staying and chatting, sometimes just squeezing his hand and immediately dipping. Richie greets them all with tired smiles and a quip or two, which keeps the energy in the room light despite his dark mood. He wants a drink so badly his hands tremble with it, but he doesn’t dare ask for one, because he knows Eddie will lay into him, and he’d deserve it.

In the late afternoon, Richie starts to get sleepy. His eyes drift closed during an episode of the Office and Eddie decides that it’s time for Richie to take a nap, because apparently that’s his decision to make now. Richie wants to protest, wants to complain, but he’s so tired and Eddie’s hands are so gentle and maybe it’s okay to sleep, just this once.

Maybe it’ll be better when he wakes up. Maybe it’ll be worse. Either way, it’ll be different.

###  sepsis

Eddie tucks Richie in for his nap and feels like a kindergarten teacher, something that should annoy him but really just makes him feel warm. He knows Richie’s not a kid, but it gets Eddie thinking—he wants kids, he’s always wanted kids, so why did he and Myra decide early into their marriage not to have any? Was he that determined to keep himself miserable, or did he know that it wasn’t forever?

Within seconds of Richie’s head hitting the pillow, he’s asleep, snoring and snuffling lightly like he always does. Eddie—despite his better judgement—leans in and presses a soft kiss to Richie’s forehead. Richie whines in his sleep and Eddie’s heart clenches. He has to go now, or he’ll never leave.

After stopping by his room to drop off his laptop and grab his phone, he pads downstairs, relieved to find the Town House completely empty. Or at least, the common areas are all empty, and that’s enough.

Eddie wonders for a brief second about the staff here, because now that he thinks about it, he’s never seen a single person who actually works here. The check in process was just Eddie grabbing a key from a cubby and leaving his card in its place, no employees involved. Does anyone actually work here? Is this another dilapidated building they’ve all been magicked into believing is fine?

Whatever. That doesn’t even matter. He’s too tired to follow that train of thought.

He slinks into the bar and makes himself a whiskey sour that he takes to the couch with him, flopping onto the ugly cushions and heaving a heavy sigh. Sliding his phone out of his pocket, he delicately sips his drink while waiting for it to turn on, knowing that there’s a shitstorm on its way. His phone got turned off and shoved into one of his drawers the minute he got to Derry, and still hasn’t exactly figured out why he did that.

His phone takes its sweet time turning on, but he doesn’t mind. He’s just going to sit in silence and read news articles, anyway, because that’s what he does with his time now. It’s not like he’s missing much.

Overall, he spends about three hours on that couch, finishing his drink within minutes but too lazy to get up and make another one. His butt eventually starts to get numb from sitting for too long and that’s when he finally stands, closing his News app and glancing at the notifications he still hasn’t acknowledged. In the bar, he makes himself another drink while scrolling through it all.

There are 47 missed calls and 128 text messages waiting for Eddie, but he can’t find it in himself to care, because they don’t matter. They’re all from Myra. There’s no one else who cares about him enough to hound him like that.

He’ll answer the next time she calls, he decides, because enough is enough, but he won’t be the one to call. He’s already wasted 27 years in this sham of a marriage—he won’t waste another second playing a part in a life that isn’t his. When she calls again, he’ll answer that phone and tell her what’s what. With almost supernatural timing, the phone vibrates in his hand, and he confidently hits the green button, bringing it up to his ear. “Myra, I—”

And of course, he’s immediately cut off. “Eddie-bear, it’s about time you answered! I’ve been worried sick!”

“Sorry, honey, I—”

“I’ll be in Derry in about ten minutes, okay? You better have all your stuff packed up by then because I’m taking you straight back home with me, our flight leaves in a few hours—”

“Wait, Myra, where are—”

“Goodbye, Eddie! I love you! See you soon!” And she hangs up.

What the _fuck_ just happened.

In reality, it takes Myra about seven minutes to pull up to the Town House, all righteous fury and lashing tongue. Eddie doesn’t even have time to finish his drink before she’s climbing out of her car. She doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise as she slams the door of her rental and stomps up to the front door, not waiting for Eddie to follow as she ascends the stairs. “Which one is your room, Eddie-bear?” She asks but doesn’t listen for the answer, simply trying each door until one opens.

Of course, the one she opens is Richie’s room. For some reason, he’s awake, when he definitely should still be napping. And of course, he’s changing in the middle of it, and is currently buck ass naked. Again. Why is he always naked? Why does he keep doing this to Eddie?

“What the fuck, dude?” Richie groans, looking half asleep still. He sounds more exasperated than anything else, like this is just a regular day where someone bursts in on him naked. Isn’t that exactly what Eddie did that to him this morning, too? Fuck, he did set a precedent? Are all of the Losers going to see Richie naked?

Jealousy coils in his stomach but he _really_ can’t deal with that right now.

Eddie wants to scream, wants to slam the door shut, wants to push Myra down the stairs, but he does none of that. He does nothing because he’s distracted—just like last time—by Richie’s huge fucking dick. He’s seriously hung like a goddamn horse and that’s such bullshit. After all those years he spent talking shit about how big his cock is, he deserved to have a fucking micropenis. But no. Of course he has to be incredibly well-endowed. Fucker.

Myra is the one to scream and slam the door shut. She’s babbling nonsense as she grasps blindly for Eddie’s wrist, now letting him lead her to his room like she should’ve from the get-go.

Once inside, Eddie flops onto his bed while Myra immediately starts tearing the room apart. “I was worried sick,” She says as she pulls shirts out of the dresser and neatly stacks them in one of his suitcases, “The way you just ran off, right after crashing your car! You came home in a dirty taxi and packed up all your stuff like you were moving out, and you barely said a word to me! Did you even go to the hospital like I told you? You could have whiplash, Eddie! You know what they say about whiplash!”

He doesn’t actually know what they say about whiplash, but he also doesn’t give a shit. “Myra, honey—” He says, interrupting her tittering, cringing at the pet name, “Why are you here?”

“You haven’t answered the phone in _days_ , Eddie! What else was I supposed to do?”

“How’d you know where I was?”

“The GPS on your phone, of course.” Wait, what? She has a GPS tracker on him? That’s like… kind of fucked up. “Don’t make that face at me! It was for your own good!”

For his own good? Now that’s a phrase Eddie’s heard many a time, coming from the one and only Sonia Kaspbrak. Hearing Myra say it takes him right back—suddenly he’s 14 again, yelling at his mother for giving him “gazebos”, finally putting his foot down. He looks at Myra and he sees his mother, sees the placebos and the lies and the Munchausen by Proxy. “Don’t say that shit,” He blurts, mind flooded with memories of years upon years of misery under the thumb of his mother, “You don’t fucking know what’s best for me.”

Myra looks flabbergasted, and Eddie can’t really blame her. He’s never so much as sworn in the same room as her. “Goodness! What’s gotten into you?”

What’s gotten into him? Confidence, for one. Love from his friends, as well. A modicum of self-respect. Some goddamn cojones, like Richie would say. “Look, Myra, I can’t do this with you anymore. I can’t keep playing house with a woman I barely know.” Is this completely out of the blue? Sure. But he’s 41 goddamn years old and he’s done wasting time, done being walked over, done rolling over and showing his belly. She perhaps doesn’t deserve that tone of voice, doesn’t deserve having this dropped on her out of nowhere, but she knows just as well what they’re doing and how hollow it is.

“What are you talking about? I—I don’t understand.”

“Yes you do. Our marriage is a sham and we both know it.”

“Eddie-bear, you don’t mean that.”

He grinds his teeth. “Don’t tell me what I mean, Myra. You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, okay, you know nothing about me.”

“Yes I do!” She snaps, “I’m your wife! I know everything about you.”

“Okay, Myra. Let’s test that out. How do I like my coffee?” Silence. “Why do I always sleep on my back?” Silence. “Myra, what’s my goddamn favorite color?”

There are tears welling in her eyes when she replies, “This isn’t fair! Why are you saying these things all of a sudden?”

“Because I came back here and found my friends, people who actually know me. I’d forgotten what it was like to be known and loved, but I remember now, and I’m not going back to a loveless marriage!”

“You haven’t seen these people in years,” Myra points out quite fairly, “What makes you think they still know you?”

Of course they still know him, he’s sure they still know him, because he still knows all of them. Certain things are buried deep and stay constant, and that’s what the Losers have shared with one another, and that’s more than he’s ever shown Myra. He’s not sure how to make her understand that. Maybe he should just… prove it. “Let’s test it, then. I’ll ask the others the same questions I asked you.”

“How will I know if they get them right?”

“Well, I’ll tell you the answers right now. I don’t drink coffee because the caffeine makes my heart palpitate. I’m more of a decaf tea kind of guy. I sleep on my back because I’ll snore if I don’t. And my favorite color is orange.” Padding over to the door and swinging it open, Eddie sticks his head into the hallway. “Hey, anyone hear me?” He worries about waking Richie for a second before remembering that Richie is already awake, and even if he were still sleeping, it wouldn’t matter, because he sleeps like the dead. Both Richie and Bill call out an affirmative, and they both open their doors to peer curiously at Eddie. “Guys, how do I like my coffee?”

Bill snorts. “What is this, a t-test? You don’t drink coffee. Caffeine ‘makes your heart palpitate’.”

“Why do I sleep on my back?”

“’Cause otherwise you snore like a fucking monster truck,” Richie says, snickering.

“What’s my favorite color?”

“Orange,” Bill and Richie say in unison, making them grin at one another.

Eddie can’t help but grin too. “Thanks, guys. I just needed to prove a point.”

Richie’s delighted laughter echoes down the hallway. “Uh oh, debate team captain Eddie Spaghetti is on the loose!”

“I’ll debate you upside the head, dickwad!”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” Richie singsongs, disappearing back into his room while still giggling to himself. Well, he seems to be having a good time, especially for being stabbed yesterday. He’s probably feeling a lot better. His door opens again just a second later, and he sticks his head out to squint at Eddie. “I’m going back to sleep, though, I feel like I got hit by a train,” He drawls, making Eddie rethink his earlier assessment.

Eddie snorts. “Alright. Good night, Trashmouth.”

“Good night, Spaghetti!”

Inside Eddie’s room, Myra is silent. Her face is so blank as to be carved of ice and it sends a chill down Eddie’s spine. He’s reminded of Sonia, the expression she’d have when he came home too late or talked back to her, like she had paused a video game and was reevaluating her strategy. It’s not exactly fair to compare Myra so blatantly to Sonia—being overbearing and annoying is one thing, Munchausen by Proxy is another—but it still makes Eddie feel sick to his stomach. For a second, he’s worried about appendicitis, and that’s how he knows he really can’t keep doing this with her. For fuck’s sake, he wants to get _better_.

“I’m sorry to drop this on you so suddenly, but we’re getting a divorce, Myra. It doesn’t need to be hard, okay? I want to be happy, and I want _you_ to be happy, and we both know that we can’t have that with each other. This isn’t the end of the world, though. You can still have a future, you can still be happy—if we agree to a clean break this can be quick and easy, alright?”

After that, they don’t talk much. They choose a divorce lawyer and agree on a timeline of Eddie moving out of their shared apartment, decide who gets which TV and shit like that, and overall have a civil conversation. Myra heads back to New York alone.

That was a lot easier than he thought it’d be. He can be tough and pigheaded when he needs to be, and Myra seemed to realize that this simply wasn’t worth fighting over. That she wasn’t happy, either.

Eddie decides not to tell any of the Losers about his divorce, besides Bill. Billy is Eddie’s oldest, most treasure friend, so of course he has to know. Eddie justifies withholding information from the others by saying he needs time to process everything—which is definitely true, because he’s still not even sure why he married her in the first place—but in truth, he’s just afraid. He’s afraid of rejection, of discomfort, of awkwardness, of himself, of _Richie_. He’s just afraid, and it’s like nothing’s changed.

But it will. Eddie’s going to change it by sheer force of will.

When Richie wakes up again, it’s early evening, and Eddie is watching The Price is Right with Bev, who has her legs casually thrown over his lap. They weren’t close as children, not really, but things like that can change easily enough. He owes it to her after all those nasty, venomous thoughts.

Killing an ancient shapeshifting space clown together is definitely a good bonding experience, and apparently so it watching The Price is Right, because he already feels closer to her than they’ve ever been. Bev’s also just a physically intimate person, and always has been, even when they were kids and it got her called a slut. She just loves her friends and she wants to be with them, near them, and Eddie really can’t blame her. That’s basically how he’s always been with Richie.

They know when Richie wakes up because you could hear his toilet flush from Mars. It’s also quite easy to recognize the slow, shuffling series of thumps as Richie trying to come down the stairs.

He makes it eventually, but it takes time. Eddie is instantly at the foot of the stairs, arms reaching out toward his most treasured friend, trying to help but not knowing how. Richie’s enormous hands grab Eddie’s face and stroke his cheeks, looking awestruck just by the sight of him. “You’re okay,” Richie breathes, shoulders shaking, “You’re okay.” Eddie gulps, cheeks framed with fire.

“Yeah, dude, I’m fine,” Eddie assures him, off put and embarrassed, “Let’s get you to the bar.” Richie wraps one hand around Eddie’s forearm, relying on Eddie to support his bodyweight, and Eddie tries not to drool. He can feel the strength just in that hand.

Eddie slides his arm around Richie’s broad back to support him, and with some help steering from Bev, they manage to navigate Richie into a plush armchair. He looks pleased beyond belief to be sitting, and more than a little sleepy. His face is relaxed and open and Eddie can’t keep his eyes off him, can’t look away from those half-lidded eyes and quirked lips.

“You okay, Richie Rich?” Bev asks, apparently seeing something worrying in his face. Eddie wonders if she’s hallucinating.

Richie slumps back into his seat, expression now pinched, like he’s been caught out. “Had a nightmare, not a big deal.”

“Are you sure?” She looks concerned as she reaches out and grabs his hands, interlacing their fingers, holding on tight. A small smile graces Richie’s face and he rubs his thumbs along the backs of her fingers. He looks soft and fond and Eddie feels like an intruder. He feels like a dirty voyeur even though these are his precious friends, people he grew up with, people he _loves_.

“Yeah, Molly. I’m sure.” And the conversation end there. It feels incomplete to Eddie, even though he was just an observer, an outsider. He wants to be able to comfort Richie, too, but that’s apparently Bev’s job, now. She seems much better at it than Eddie could ever hope to be.

Ben and Bill come downstairs and each flop onto their own couches. Mike shows up at one point and they all make dinner together, with Richie and Bill just watching as the others dance around the kitchen as the radio blasts songs they loved as children. They eat fettucine alfredo in one of the sitting rooms and chat, just shooting the shit and enjoying each other’s company. Ben has to leave in the morning for work and Bev’s leaving in the afternoon to deal with her divorce, so this is probably their last opportunity to all be together for a while. Eddie’s going to enjoy it while he can.

It’s not like they won’t stay in touch or anything, but still, there’s just something special about all of them (well, almost all of them) being together like this.

Growing up as a germaphobe meant that Eddie wasn’t a very tactile person, but that was never true with the Losers. It was even less true with Richie. As a kid, Eddie was always reaching out towards his friends, stretching toward the warmth they exude. He was always grabbing sleeves and playfully pushing, always stretching and grasping, always had his hands on soft skin.

With Richie, he was always hugging and squeezing and manhandling, always crawling on top of him and invading his space. Richie was like a magnet, or a star, always drawing Eddie closer and closer with an inexplicable magnetism.

Perhaps a star is the more apt analogy after all, because Eddie always feared he’d be pulled too close by Richie’s inescapable gravity, and burn up in the process. Perhaps it’s already too late for him.

Ben helps Richie back up the stairs when Bev decides he’s too sleepy to stay with the rest of them. Eddie watches them go and feels that hideous jealousy again, though he does his best to swallow it back down—Ben doesn’t deserve that. Ben is literally so in love with Bev that he’s not even a threat, so that vile envy couldn’t be less justified. God, Kaspbrak, what is _wrong_ with you?

Not to long after that, Eddie bids his friends goodnight and heads off to bed as well. After seeing Myra today, he’s fucking _tired_ , and he really feels like he’s earned a nice long shower and some shuteye.

He dreams of Hawaiian shirts and a snort laugh that makes his knees weak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe the real clown was the friends we made along the way
> 
> next chapter coming in a week or so!

**Author's Note:**

> apologies for the copious amount of bill hader thirst. hope you enjoyed! you can find me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/transbevmarsh)


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